


John's Charlie Brown Christmas

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Canonical Character Death, Christmas Feels, Did I Mention Angst?, M/M, Not Anyone You'd Care About So It's Okay, One Shot, Oral Sex, Sherlock Is A Bit Filthy, Sherlock's revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock spreads his special brand of Christmas <del>angst</del> cheer</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Charlie Brown Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Fic prompt by Miezer. Apologies in advance lol.

This was ridiculous. He was an adult man. A doctor. A decorated war veteran for God's sake, taking and saving lives occasionally at the  _same time_. Yet none of these facts did a single thing towards dampening the pleasant warmth that spread through his chest as if it was a machine warming up to deliver the jolt of excitement that accompanied the first time he opened his eyes on Christmas morning. It was nearly a scene from a story book, bright sunlight only peeking from the cracks around his window shade, until he raised it to an unusually quiet Baker Street almost completely covered in a thick blanket of untouched, fluffy white snow. It glittered and gleamed, a dragon's hoard of diamonds on every surface, the stuff of which carols were written.

 

He pulled his trusty blue dressing gown up over his pyjamas (he was even wearing proper  _pyjamas,_ a rich emerald fleece pair he'd picked up on a whim) and went to go wake his mad scientist flatmate by playfully jumping on him as he and his sister used to do with their parents. Sherlock had actually gone to bed. Well, he went into his room, anyway because... 

 

John paused with his hand on the knob to his bedroom door.

 

If one thing could change even something as ingrained as John's radiant Christmas Spirit, it was Sherlock Holmes. He had this way of turning everything around and generally making a jumble of a situation that only he could guide them out of. They weren't even actually fighting about anything specific, which was probably what frustrated John the most. The usual lot had come over for a Christmas Eve gathering as well as a few unexpected extras. Sherlock was especially awful to each and every one of them, and they left, Molly abruptly and in tears. It had gone from bad to worse when round one had concluded until John mumbled something about human ears in the crisper and all hell broke loose. There was the prerequisite shouting that became tainted with something extremely toxic as Sherlock lost. his. shit. 

 

At first it seemed to be one of his usual tantrums, all lanky, flailing limbs and flopping black curls and pushing things around, presumably looking for cigarettes. John realized some line or another had been crossed when Sherlock began tossing his experiments. He'd shoved John out of the way of the refrigerator, nearly hitting him with the door of it which he thrust the rest of the way open and began dumping everything into the lined tall kitchen bin. He took each thing out, roaring at John what it was for and how long he'd been working on it before slamming it into the container. All John could do was watch, saucer-eyed, his heart slamming against his rib cage as his best friend screamed himself hoarse and purposely ruined some things that had cost him months of research. How had it all gotten so out of control? He'd called the taller man's name in some kind of voice that stopped the rampaging Consulting Detective cold. Sherlock vibrated with the bad kind of adrenaline rush, the kind that was born of some sort of pure pain. Only his fingers twitched on the beige side of the bin he held as he glared iridescent daggers at the bottom shelf of the ransacked fridge.

 

Sherlock's next words were small and broken like a child trying to say something through sobs. Although Sherlock wasn't doing any such thing, they pinched and wrenched at John's heart in the same way.

 

"I...  _hate_  caring, John." John had come to the immediate conclusion that he would have to say something and quickly, but what exactly does one say to that? To words that came from some unknown place John had been allowed only limited access to?

 

"It's fine, Sherlock." Even the tremors and twitching had stopped at that; those first words of acceptance spoken in a dim little Italian place where the premiere of their rumoured romantic relationship took place. He'd opened his mouth to say something else after a heavy silence but was cut off.

 

"If you offer to make tea, John, I swear on my coat I will jump for real this time." He dropped the bin which, by some miracle, remained upright after giving a few intense wobbles and whirled as if wearing his dressing gown or his well-known greatcoat to circumnavigate the table on his way to his room. The slamming door punctuated John's cracked heart. Until this point, Sherlock hadn't used that particular bit of ammunition in their arguments. But then, this wasn't an ordinary argument. There was something huge behind this but John also knew that he wasn't getting anything out of him tonight. Good thing they'd all done a thorough sweep of the flat for anything drug-related and come up with nothing.

 

John thought twice after closing the fridge door and doing a rudimentary clean-up. But, he decided, it was Christmas time. He would have a glass or two of nice spiced rum and a watch of  _A Christmas Story_  even though he'd prefer if Sherlock was there, commenting his disdain but secretly smirking with the half of his mouth facing away from John when the Bumpus's dogs destroy the turkey. When it was over, John had retrieved Sherlock's gifts from the cold storage of the basement and placed them appropriately. The genius may be able to tell what they were but he at least did not find them this time. John had put several surveillance and security techniques in place and all pointed to how the bag hadn't been disturbed. After a cursory glance at the hanging stockings, wondering why he bothered to have one still, he'd showered, shaved(for what reason he'll never know)and turned in. He supposed it could have been worse. Sherlock could have left, stomping off into the night in search of the "Danger" in his "Danger Night" but he hadn't as far as John could hear. He even felt under the cracks of the doors leading into Sherlock's room to see if chill air had entered via a window opened in order to make his escape. Besides, Mycroft wouldn't have hesitated in dragging baby brother off to some distant rehab where his mind would shamefully rot until he found a way to escape.

 

But now, as John stood in the hall as he had actually managed to make it out of  his bedroom by now, there was nothing for it than to soldier on. He had to at least check on him. The decision having been made seemed to open the rest of his body up for sensory input, as if all the energy had been focused on thinking.

 

Gingerbread. No... Yes. Yes, that was definitely gingerbread. 

 

He cautiously made his way down to the main area, entering quietly through the kitchen door. He couldn't imagine Mrs. Hudson bothered to get up early enough to make fresh gingerbread after how she had been treated. The apologies would be expensive in all ways possible. Yet there it was, brown and spicy and heavenly smelling. Next to it was a steaming cup of tea. Place cards in front of each had the words "Eat Me." and "Drink Me." printed on them respectively. Through the looking glass was definitely the theme of this Christmas. He used the knife conveniently laid aside and cut himself a large slice, the first bite rather exquisite. He set it on the small plate and sipped the tea almost sputtering when he discovered the extra ingredient. It was half six in the morning. Rum in tea of a Christmas morning was a bit close to Harry's later teen years right before she started running away from home. The water in the kettle was still hot and, with just one more sip (it  _was_  Christmas after all) he dumped the contents to make a fresh cup, snacking on his gingerbread as he went.

 

He strained to hear but there wasn't any sound of movement in Sherlock's room. John somehow knew the odd man was awake and possibly just standing on the other side of the door. John decided that he would play this morning by ear, as Sherlock had become impossibly more...  _human_  since his return. He'd just got his best friend back and there was bound to be a long period of adjustment. So he prepared another mug to leave on the table and carried his own steeping one as well as his plate of gingerbread, which had somehow acquired another much smaller slice, into the sitting room where a fire cheerily burned. He grabbed the remote, stuffing it into his dressing gown pocket before taking his tea back up and settling on the sofa. He watched a few moments of Church Mass on several channels and was promised some sort of parade later. Not that he would likely get to watch but it was a nice idea.

 

It was like the timid approach of some large woodland creature, the door to Sherlock's bedroom creaking open at an agonizingly slow pace. Near silent footfalls indicated bare feet. At least he'd changed into pyjamas, came the thought without John's bidding. He made sure to keep his eyes on the television screen as he listened to the still hot water being poured, the milk being retrieved, the little scrape of the mug being lifted, and a whisper of a breath as it was being cooled before a sip as was his routine. John's wandering thoughts on the way those exaggeratedly shaped lips looked performing this act were interrupted by the man himself, standing in the kitchen doorway, mug in hand. John casually changed the channel again, finding the classic A Charlie Brown Christmas and deciding it would make as good a background noise as anything. As he feigned interest, he saw Sherlock take another sip of his tea in his peripherals, pretending not to watch the former Captain. He somehow refused to take his eyes off of the sitting room, backing up to the kitchen table to replace his mug then wandering out and into John's field of vision to sit in his flatmate's overstuffed armchair. John took a bite of his gingerbread and chewed slowly.

 

A few twitches of long fingers calloused by decades of expert stringed instrument play and Sherlock rose again. Crossing over to his own grey leather seat. Each time Sherlock stood, John would purposely pinch a bite off of his gingerbread with great concentration until the man was seated again. The next move was to the dining table, that was more often than not used as a desk, and sitting in the chair closest to the sofa, his back to his non-confrontational flatmate, rattling papers and opening his laptop so he could stare blankly at it a moment before closing it again gently with a soft 'snick'. John could tell the children's voices grated on the edges of Sherlock's attention, but the man had mustered up every bit of his considerable focus, and kept it on his friend and colleague.

 

Finally, the weedy man navigated the span between the chair and the arm of the couch farthest from him,  lowering himself onto it with sloth-like movements. John sat right in the center so that arm was no farther than the other, the gesture only serving to bring him into view once more. It was as if it was accidental, the slow sideways slide of that unusually plump arse clad in fleece pyjama bottoms (that come to think of it looked an awful lot like the ones he wore the full set of except in crimson instead of green) until it landed properly on the cushion. Lithe hands lay restlessly on knobby knees tapping the tempo of a song only Sherlock could hear. John noticed he had different patterns of tapping depending on his level of agitation. He'd never told Sherlock this but one day he would ask what pieces were soothing him. This was a particularly aggressive one, growing more so by the moment, yet they sat in relative silence for long moments. 

 

Oddly enough, John was the first to break, tentatively reaching to cradle his friend's forearm with one hand and ease the sleeve of his dressing gown, the thicker camel one, up with the other. He didn't look until the last moment, steeling himself with a breath. Sherlock quietly allowed him his examination, offering his other arm, both feet, and even extracting a pen-light from his pocket to hand John so his eyes and nostrils could be examined. When he stood to pull his pyjama bottoms down so his thighs could be checked as well, John stayed his hand. Sherlock released the hold he had on his waistband and resumed his seat. John put his eyes back on the screen and waited some more.

 

"I didn't, John." Sherlock's already deep voice was still a bit horse from overuse.

 

"I believe you."

 

"I wanted to."

 

"I know."

 

"Even now."

 

John exhaled sympathetically. "I know."

 

Another long moment of staring at the television in which John felt his heart grow even heavier, pounding at its normal rhythm but  _harder_ , as if trying ram open its bone cage.

 

"His name was Tom," Sherlock said. John kept his eyes front and his mouth shut, expecting the tale of some lost love or some other person that he would have to add to his long list of people to punch for hurting Sherlock. "Thomas Stanford Carlton Holmes." That caused John to momentarily forget his stoicism.

  

"Holmes?" He gathered himself again and forced his eyes back to the television, afraid he would scare his friend into clamming up about something that was obviously so important. Also what was it with the Holmes family and these elaborate names? "Sorry. When you're ready you can continue or..."

 

"He was even older than Mycroft," Sherlock went on right away. "I first met him when I was four. He'd decided against university in favour of seeing the wide world, so he hadn't even known I existed until he returned for a visit. I knew he existed, however, hearing stories about all of the places he went and seeing all of the strange things he sent back from his travels. It seemed as if Mycroft idolized him as much as he disliked his lifestyle. You see, because Tom was so erratic and me... well you  _know_  me, Mycroft was forced into a position of authority and responsibility well beyond a normal sibling."

 

"All of the negativity of Middle Child's Syndrome with all the pressure of the oldest son's responsibility," John murmured.

 

"I thought you weren't still seeing a psychiatrist."

 

"I  _do_  read, Sherlock. Also we had to study a bit of psychology in med school. Helped with patient relations and that sort of thing." With another wary sidelong look, Sherlock resumed, talking hastily as if he thought that if he didn't speak his absolute fastest, he'd never get the rest of the story out.

 

"Long story short, he introduced me to science with a chemistry set the Christmas after I'd first met him. That didn't go over so well with our parents but he continued to encourage me, sneaking me the more dangerous things whilst giving me the more mundane elements as a cover. Between him and Mycroft, I am what I am today, and if you tell Mycroft I said anything approaching positive about him so help me. Then Tom was killed on Christmas Eve in a South American 'boating accident', in a manner that prohibited even having a body to bury even though there's a headstone in our family plot."

 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

 

"So am I. Turns out he was not actually dead, working for Moriarty and I had to kill him with my bare hands."

 

"Jesus, Sherlock!" All pretense of ignoring him were dropped at this revelation. Sherlock pushed on despite John's wild-eyed stare, pale, ever-changing eyes still fastened to the movie.

 

"And last night was the first time I realized at least a little of what I had actually done to you and I was  _angry_ , John! I was so very angry with myself for being the cause of so much pain for you. I didn't even know what to do with it all. If I moved from my bed I would not only have used, but probably not stop until-"

 

"Stop this, Sherlock!" John couldn't keep the hysterical edge of horror out of his voice, fisting whatever he could grab of Sherlock in his left hand which turned out to be the shoulder of the dressing gown. He then released it in favour of getting his arms around his best friend and squeezing no matter how awkward the angle. Sherlock endured stiffly for a silent moment before letting his head fall on top of John's, body molding a bit into the clumsy embrace.

 

"I'd have to, because I was afraid you wouldn't be here anymore when I came back and I couldn't... I couldn't."

 

"Sherlock, shut up." 

 

"I can't yet. I meant this before but never as much as the situation warranted." Sherlock raised his head and turned his torso so John would look at him. And look John did, taking his fill of every mole, freckle, and wrinkle both present and implied. There was the tiny, almost invisible lightning patterned scar at the corner of his bottom lip that he often ran his thumb over absently when thinking, the twin peaks of his top lip, the slope of his impossible cheekbones. And of course his eyes, almond shaped and coloured like a day at sea in the Caribbean, the blues, greens, and teals of water in which one thinks they see everything, so pale and clear it is, but when you try to swim to the bottom, you just encounter more and more sea until the pressure crushes you. Silver clouds danced in them and a yellow sunburst haloed the pupils. In the right one, there was a black speck that John always thought of as a black hole. He found it interesting that most of the things he compared Sherlock's eyes to had to do with drawing you in until you imploded breathlessly.

 

"Meant what?" he encouraged finally, noticing that Sherlock hadn't said anything in quite some time, though how much couldn't be determined.

 

"How... very,  _very_  sorry I am to have hurt you." For a moment, John was awestruck. The eyes he was so invested in a moment ago became impossibly more captivating as they filled. It wasn't his acting face. John had made it his priority to be able to tell the difference ever since the Guy Fawkes Day bombing attempt. 

 

"Sh-Sherlock..." He reached up and gently grabbed handfuls of dark curls. Sherlock's hands rested on John's shoulders and their foreheads touched, hitched breaths shared in the small space between their mouths.

 

"I am sorry, John."

 

"It's fi... it's fine." John's voice gave out, a choked whisper the only thing he had left when he felt more than heard their words, a tickling brush of the lips as they formed.

 

"It isn't. I'm so sorry."

 

"It is. You're here now."

 

"John, I-"

 

"Shut up."

 

Of course Sherlock did no such thing but it didn't matter. John had no idea when breathing became kisses, the apologies still being spoken between the presses of their lips. The very tip of his tongue slipped out to taste as well as feel the extravagant shape of Sherlock's lips. It was supposed to be slow and easy, until the outrageous man gave some sort of signal neither of them were aware of, inviting John in and it was as if a switch was flipped.

 

John pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, enthusiastically pillaging as he maneuvered his body until he straddled Sherlock's lap. The latter man was encouraging him through word and deed to take whatever he wanted however he wanted, until they could feel each other desperate and straining in their pants despite the thick layers between them. 

 

"God, Sherlock. Your mouth..." The basic thought was interrupted as he resumed worshipping said part. Sherlock took this as his cue to trail open-mouthed kisses down John's neck, experimenting with different configurations of lips, tongue, and teeth. Combining drawing an infinity symbol with the tip of his tongue and minor suction exactly halfway between John's right earlobe and ridge of his clavicle pulled a moan from him that distracted him from the fact that he'd been somehow stripped of his dressing gown. His pyjama top was hanging open to reveal a wide swath of nearly hairless chest that was positively golden compared to the one being revealed before him as he pushed up Sherlock's olive drab t-shirt. The thin man's torso was scattered with dark and gingerish hairs, chorded with lean muscle and radiated heat that for some reason John never expected whenever he had the chance to touch, however innocuous the past situations. There was only a split second in which he wondered when his flatmate had acquired one of his RAMC tee shirts before he felt skillful fingers swipe deliberately over his nipples. Combined with whatever Sherlock was doing to his neck it was nearly over for John then and there, so John slowed everything down. They had time now. Everything was on the table and they would explore each item in depth, but now was for adjustment.

 

He took Sherlock's exquisite face in his hands and kissed him thoroughly, using everything he could think of to hear the small urgent noises mixed with decadent, throaty moans. Sherlock could only cling to him, arms so tightly around John's compact frame he was nearly hugging himself. John couldn't be bothered to complain. Breathing  _was_  a bit boring when compared to this tangling of limbs and emotion. He literally felt his heart being tugged, an extremely delicious discomfort.

 

Kind of like the one in his pants at the moment.

 

"Oh for God's sake, John! I'm no blushing maiden." His lips froze and he pulled back to meet piercing eyes. Yes. He was(thankfully)still Sherlock even after this grand display of intense emotion.

 

"I know I'm going to regret asking, but what exactly do you mean?"

 

"You don't have to go slowly for my sake."

 

"But you... Look," John sighed in frustration. "I'm not trying to be delicate with you, I'm trying to savour everything, alright?" With another sigh, he dismounted to sit in his former spot, the mood broken. Somehow the memo hadn't reached his cock because it was still raging.

 

"Sorry! I'm sorry, John." Sherlock turned his body toward him then twisted to his knees, shuffling on them to position himself between John's swinging legs. They immediately stopped moving, his eyebrows raised in surprise as he stared down at the mussed hair and mischievous eyes of his partner now in every definition he supposed. "It has been a while but I'm sure I remember the basics."

 

As it turned out, Sherlock's "basics" had John quivering in seconds. 

 

He started slowly, leisurely running accomplished hands up the expanse of John's torso revealed by the open top, circling dusky nipples with lightly calloused fingertips until again they tightened and peaked. John could only breath out half an "Oh!" until the hands were followed by a clever tongue and warm, soft lips reddened with use. John could hardly keep his eyes open with the pleasure of just this simple contact but he had to watch, had to witness his own undoing. When Sherlock's mouth reached his right nipple, he flicked his tongue rapidly over the pebbled nub whilst John whined. A near shout was extracted when the left was simultaneously flicked in time with the lashing tongue, and when they were concurrently pinched and sucked...

 

"Christ, Sherlock!" The answering smirk as he continued the ministrations a moment longer managed to be wicked and smug at the same time. Prat.

 

Sherlock kissed back down, tugging the bow of John's pyjama bottoms loose with his teeth and encouraging his hips to lift with a tap to them. They were slid off easily and tossed aside. Sherlock had to take a moment to consider this new development. A slight blush climbed John's features as he realized what the hold up was.

 

"They're... my Christmas pants,"

 

"You... you have Christmas pants?" Sherlock examined the scarlet Y-fronts, white trimming the slot for which they were named, the leg holes and the waist.

 

"They were a gag gift from my sister. They used to have, erm... mistletoe attached over the-you know what never mind." He was attempting to find his pyjama bottoms but failed utterly as a humid heat traversed his thickened cock. Sherlock was mouthing his length through the cotton, humming contentedly. The vibrations made word formation impossible for a moment.

 

"They're marvelous," Sherlock declared, muffled by his task. "I demand all of your pants replaced with these." John was about to throw back a witty rejoinder when he was extracted through the fold and jerked several times as Sherlock licked his lips and stared at it as if he'd been lost in the desert for days and his dick was the first water he'd seen in all that time. He was so hard his foreskin had already retracted, leaving the glans glistening with more leaking than he'd done since he was a teen. "Goodness, I'll need to clean this mess up," Sherlock sighed as if there was nothing for it. He didn't help at all, dipping that nimble tongue down to lap at the source and pulling away gradually so that a stream of clear fluid stretched from one point to the other. It suddenly seemed as if he was trying to make John come with as little contact as possible because the sight nearly undid the poor, throbbing doctor.

 

"Please," he finally whimpered through gritted teeth as he fought his own body for control. "Sherlock, please." 

 

It was all the encouragement the man seemed to need because he threw himself onto John's length with gusto, making messy slurping noises as he took him in a little further each pass until that one glorious moment where John looked down to find himself fully seated, Sherlock's perfect lips and nose among the nest of wiry ashen blond pubic hair, just resting there making sure he had John's full attention before the adam's apple on the underside of his absurdly long neck bobbed as he swallowed.

 

John didn't even have time to warn him.

 

He could only grunt and try his best to keep himself from jerking too much, accidentally choking this amazing man as white heat threatened to tear him in two. He viciously gripped the cushions, imprinting the half moons of his clipped nails. Sherlock, didn't waste a drop of this, however, cleaning his languidly softening member like some great cat, eyes hazy from his own orgasm, acquired at some point during his activities.  

 

When control of language returned(more or less)he tried to tell Sherlock that although this had been pretty much the greatest orgasm he'd had in over a decade, it hadn't been necessary. He thought twice about it, however and instead said,

 

"You should have let me look after yours."

 

"Maybe next time," Sherlock said as if talking about a team losing an unimportant match. As they sat limply on the couch, sides pressed together, snogging lazily, John was only a little tiny bit jealous that of course, Sherlock was brilliant at this, too before it hit him.  _Next time_. He kissed Sherlock even harder at that idea.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock advising him to put his dressing gown back on. When he asked where his pyjama bottoms were, he was haughtily informed that he'd only have them returned if he promised not to put them back on.

 

"What if I get cold, Sherlock?"

 

"You're a soldier. You'll survive." With a kiss he crossed the room, John appreciating the implication of his arse beneath his dressing gown.

 

"Bastard," he murmured fondly.

 

"Idiot," came the equally warm answer from over by the fireplace where Sherlock was removing the stockings from their hooks.

 

"Sherlock? What are you doing?"

 

"It appears as if we've had a visit from Father Christmas, John." 

 

"Mm. Go on then." Sherlock returned, handing John his own stocking before eagerly reaching into his. That was weird. He hadn't even noticed that anything was in his when he first came through. Of course, his mind wasn't really on it at the time but it was still curious. He decided he could wait a moment longer in order to see Sherlock's reactions. John's gifts to him were more appropriate than ever in light of this current development of their relationship. Sherlock began rattling off his predictions for what was inside a small, rectangular envelope, with a red striped peppermint stick clamped like a cigar between his teeth. Slight oral fixation indeed. The sight was enough to make him twitch a little despite having just had a massive orgasm.

 

"A... badge and a key-card from Bart's. John!"

 

"I had a bit of help with it but, as sort of an apology from-"

 

"I have unlimited access to the lab!"

 

"Until we can have a proper one built closer, yes." The glee in his eyes was heart wrenching.

 

"Thank you, John."

 

"It wasn't me, it was Father Christmas. I had to have a talk with him regarding your behaviour and was able to convince him that repeatedly saving the country superseded your refusal to be polite about it." They shared a laugh as if nothing had changed and really not much had. Except kissing and apparently great sex, though it was still just the tip of the iceberg. John planned on wrecking him later and poor Sherlock had no idea. Well, it was Sherlock so perhaps he had a little bit of and idea; especially the way John was absently working on his own candy stick.

 

"You need to open yours," Sherlock encouraged, excitement seething below his calmed exterior. John quirked a smile and pushed his hand into the stocking, extracting a cube about four inches by four inches, perfectly wrapped in silver with a golden ribbon that seemed perfectly full for something that had been sitting in a stocking for a while. The box itself was plain white and Sherlock leaned in as John untucked the tab and lifted the lid to reveal a Christmas tree ornament held in place with a cardboard structure. He looked at his best friend, the question plain on his face. Sherlock just beamed and encouraged him to continue with a slight nod.

 

John pulled the object carefully from its nest and held it up in the natural light streaming through the twin windows by its silvered hanging loop. It was a small globe with fluid of some sort within as well as what looked like a leather purse containing two misshapen eggs. His heart immediately screamed to him what they were and where they came from at first glance, but his mind rationally told him it was impossible. 

 

"Is this...?" How would one even go about asking if these were  _literally_  the bollocks of one's greatest enemy.

 

"He hurt you. Many times through many people. One of them, unfortunately was me. By the way, I am a notoriously jealous partner and I would have had the testicles of everyone you've dated since I met you, but they have inconveniently proved anatomically incorrect for the procedure." He blinked up at Sherlock for long moments, then began laughing so hard he thought he would pass out. Then he was being kissed until the same thought resurfaced.

 

"You know," John said as the kisses became less frantic, "this doesn't get you out of thoroughly thought out apologies to every last person you offended last night."

 

"Can't you just... fix it, John?" If he was honest, having that kind of absolute faith put in him, especially by this particular person, gave him a warm feeling in his belly. But he stood firm.

 

"Absolutely not." Sherlock sighed the sigh of the most put upon human being on the planet.

 

"But Sally Donovan, John." He understood. He really did. Anderson was currently a fawning fanboy but at least he showed remorse for taking the bait. Sally just showed, big as you please, and continued to insult Sherlock as if he'd never been away. It seemed their old snappy banter at first, but Sherlock was in that especially bad mood and it all went to hell rather quickly.

 

"Well... she  _did_  deserve it but-" Wide shining eyes, crystal blue at this angle were fixed pleadingly on him, giving him pause. "Oh no! That no longer works on me." Another persecuted sigh he felt on his face. "Really you were awful."

 

"I know."

 

"But I'll handle Sally."

 

"I know," Sherlock smirked cheekily.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I have two settings when writing: "Angst" and "Fluff". This is just something I'm using to try and get my head back in the game. Please excuse the roughness. I love you all madly.


End file.
